


Roll Up, Roll Up

by majestic_shriek



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Drug Use, M/M, Weed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-11
Updated: 2012-10-11
Packaged: 2017-11-16 09:35:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/538052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/majestic_shriek/pseuds/majestic_shriek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the filming for Magical Mystery Tour, the group needs a bit of a time out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roll Up, Roll Up

**Author's Note:**

> I blame [](http://obstinatrix.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://obstinatrix.livejournal.com/)**obstinatrix** and my Magical Mystery Tour box set for this. We were talking about shotgunning because it is inherently hot, and then somehow I decided that a weed-filled session on the bus was how one of the seat legs got broken (for which they were charged £5!) This then was a natural progression.

This is an ~~inspirational image for this fic. Just imagine them all squeezed together in those seats, leaning over, sharing smoke, kissing...

[](http://photobucket.com)

It’s getting late, really. The night’s drawing in, the hints of autumn beginning to appear in the chill air as the sun sets in the sky. Most of the extras and everyone else have gone down to the hotel already now, once they’d finished for the day when Paul couldn’t think of anything else to film. It was just them left, John, Paul, George and Ringo, sat in the coach looking out over the darkening Newquay sea.

“We should head back,” says George, and Paul blinks lazily at him.

“Why?” he asks. “Nothing more special back at the hotel.”

“There’s a bar,” George says, “and a warm cup of tea.” Paul snorts and turns away from George, swinging his legs over the armrest.

“Don’t need none of that, Georgie,” says John, patting him on the shoulder. “We’ve got the important gear right here.” John taps his breast pocket, where George knows he’s got a joint ready rolled; he saw him putting it together earlier during a quiet moment. George hums noncommittally.

“We could still head back though,” says Ringo, from where he’s lounged in front of them, spread over a whole two seats, and George nods in agreement. Paul merely shares a look with John and then rolls his eyes

“You know if we start doing this back there, everyone will want in on the stuff,” Paul says. “This stuff’s good, you know? Just for us. Something special.”

“It’s just weed, Paul,” says George, but he’s just arguing for principle now. He can’t be bothered to move from the seat. It might be getting a bit chilly, but it’s not bad, curled up here with the others, watching the light fade over the water.

Paul, as if he can read George’s mind, agrees. “Yeah, maybe, but here’s special, right? Just the four of us, me and John, you two; just the four of us, sat in our Magical Mystery Bus, looking at the sea.”

“There’s been too many people, Georgie,” says John, “you have to see that, right, Ritchie?” John’s looking to Ringo for approval now too, and Ringo finds himself nodding in agreement. “Too many fucking people, all around all the fucking time, so we’re staying here and having a _moment_ , got it?”

Ringo shrugs. “I don’t mind much either way, long as I get me a hit.” John and Paul turn as one and look at George.

“Yeah, whatever,” he says after a short pause. “If it gets cold, I’m going in though.” He gestures at John. “Get going then.”

“Patience, young one,” intones John, but he extracts the joint from his pocket, along with a box of matches. “If you’re cold though --”

“Yes,” says Paul, immediately catching on to where John’s going. “We’ve only got the one, right? So we gotta share. Might as well get close and warm in the process.” He unhooks his legs and slides over to the window seat, patting the aisle seat beside him. “C’mere, then Johnny.” John rolls his eyes the way he always does when Paul is being Paul, which means all of the time, but he slips across the gangway and next to Paul.

“Doesn’t help me, does it?” grumbles George from behind them, but Paul just laughs.

“You can snuggle up with Ritchie, George,” he suggests, “or there’s a blanket up there, I think.”

“I’ll take the blanket, if it’s all the same to you,” George says, and he’s up and feeling around in the luggage rack, before triumphantly appearing with a thick woolen blanket.

“Happy now?” says Paul, stretching one arm up and over John’s shoulders, pulling him in closer.

“Blanket smells,” George says, but he nods. Ringo’s in the seat in front, kneeling on the cushions and peering at the three of them over the headrests.

“Are we getting on with this, then? All this bloody waiting and talking about it, the hit’ll fade from the stuff before we’ve even started.”

“Shut it,” says John happily, and he leans back into Paul’s shoulders, striking a match against the rough edge of the box. The light of the flame flares up between them, and it’s startlingly bright for a moment before John touches it to the tip of the joint and inhales deeply.

“Johnny,” says Paul, and John turns towards him, angling his head upwards, and Paul goes down towards him, pressing his lips against John’s. They’ve done this before; the four of them, the two of them, especially when stuff was short and they wanted to hit the high harder. Paul loves the feeling of John’s (George’s, Ringo’s) lips opening underneath his, and the smoke spilling out between them, entering his lungs. It’s a harsh warm burn, but Paul loves it, loves that he’s getting this from his John, from his mates. He breathes, taking the smoke John’s offering, before pulling away with a soft smile. John’s face is beautiful, already softening under the hit, and Paul can’t resist leaning down again and planting a gentle kiss against John’s lips.

“Hey,” says George, “that can wait till later, alright?” Paul blushes, and he can’t help the small giggle that escapes his lips.

“Sorry, George,” he says, taking the joint from John’s fingers, and bringing it to his lips. “C’mere and I’ll make it up to you.” George leans forward over the seats, and then his mouth is pressed to Paul’s, opening as they share the smoke between them. The first time Paul did this with George it was strange, he remembers. He’d done it with John; someone somewhere in some club had told them about it, and he and John had spent a very pleasant night getting steadily more high and handsy. But that was John. The first time with George and Ringo, well, it wasn’t exactly the same. This was more just to get higher, not like when he would share with John and each time it would lead to more kissing until the joint was almost burnt down to their fingers and wasted away. Now, he likes taking it this way, all four of them linked together. It connects them. Paul likes connections.

George leans back, breathes out deeply, and rests his head back, eyes closed. Paul passes the joint to Ringo, waiting patiently, and tightens his grip on John, pulling him in even closer until he’s practically in Paul’s lap now. Ringo takes a hit, and Paul relinquishes his hold long enough to let John lean forward to accept the smoke from him. John’s all long lines and beauty when Paul’s watching him like this, the structure of his face against Ringo’s, and Paul starts to wonder what he looks like when he’s up close to John like that, when the two of them are moulded together. John falls back into Paul’s arms, satisfied, and the softness is even more pronounced. Paul kisses him again, he can’t help it. Ringo leans over the two of them and passes the joint to George with a knowing look and George rolls his eyes.

It goes on like that, George to Paul, Paul to John, John to Ringo, Ringo to George, round and round, until the joint’s burning the end of their fingers, and Paul can feel the buzz in his head. “Fuck,” he says, giggling into John’s shoulder.

“Later,” says John, and George hits him on the shoulder, but he mostly misses.

“I don’t wanna know,” he says.

“Paulie’s great in bed,” continues John regardless. “He’s a fucking star --”

“We know,” says Ringo, lazily, head resting against the window and feet across the aisle. “A) you’ve told us before, even though we don’t want to fucking know and b) we’ve bloody heard you, you noisy fuckers.”

Paul blushes, and buries his head into John’s neck. “Good,” says John, “you fucking should hear, because he’s fucking great, you know, like --”

“John,” says Paul, “Johnny, stop it.” It says something about Paul and John that John stops, George thinks, but that’s before he’s leaning over their seats looking down at them. They look very far away all of a sudden, and George reaches his hand down to see how far away they are.

“Oww,” says Paul, as George’s hand connects with the top of his head. “What are you doing, you fucker?”

“I wanted to see how far away you were,” says George, and he swings his arm again, knocking John’s hat off this time. John lifts his hand and catches George’s arm.

“Right here, you idiot,” he says, “stop hitting my head.”

“You’ve got nice heads,” says George, and he leans over the seat backs, trying to get closer. John’s still got him by the arm, and he tugs at him a bit, and somehow, before he knows how, George feels himself heading up and over the seat and down on top of John and Paul in a mess of flailing limbs, blanket and all, which doesn’t help with the tangle.

“You fucker!” laughs Paul, caught in a tangle of George’s legs. “You almost had my head off!”

“Pipe down,” says Ringo, blinking slowly at them through the small gap in the seats. “Some of us are trying to think.”

“Care to join us, Ritchie?” John asks, extracting his hand somehow from George who is giggling softly on their laps as he tries to regain his equilibrium.

“I’m good,” Ringo says, closing his eyes again. “Looks like you’ve got your hands full there.”

“For Pete’s sake, stop wriggling, George,” says Paul, trying to push George off him, but it doesn’t work. George’s leg is between the seat backs, the other wrapped somehow around Paul’s neck, and he’s leaning back against John, arms akimbo as he tries and fails to sit upright.

“He’s alright,” John says, and he presses a small kiss to George’s lips, which stills George for a moment. They don’t usually do that, not outside the confines of a joint, and George is taken aback. Paul apparently is too, because he cuffs John gently around the head. “Hey,” protests John, “it’s just a kiss, Paulie.”

“Yeah, well,” says Paul, and he leans over, as far as he’s able and connects with John, lips meeting against his, as John finally opens to him. He can taste John’s lips, that familiar taste of John, mixing with the lingering scent of the weed. Paul could kiss John for hours, just normally, but when he’s high, when he’s flying, he never wants to let John go. He never wants to let anyone go; he wants that closeness from everyone. Especially John. He pulls away from John with some reluctance, and licks his lips with a deft flick of his tongue.

“Paulie,” says John, and he’s gone, Paul can see it, see how far gone John is with all this, and the image of Paul in front of him, and he grins, and leans further forward to claim George’s lips as well, because he needs everyone right now, because why not? Because if John can, he can. The angle’s awkward, and Paul has to lean further than he expected. Just as George’s lips meet his, with a rather surprised sound from George, and a rather appreciative one from John, the balance slips, and suddenly George is falling away from the both of them, crashing to the ground in a mess of legs and blanket, and Paul’s almost following him, caught only by John’s arm around his waist.

“Fuck,” George giggles, and he tries to get up, but ends up flat on the floor again. “Fuck,” he giggles again.

“You alright, Georgie?” asks Ringo, not opening his eyes. George giggles in response, so Ringo takes that as a yes.

“He’s fine,” says Paul, from his position across John’s lap. “But the bus ain’t.” He stretches out over George’s laughing form, and taps the seat leg across from them. “You’ve bloody gone and broken the bus, George.”

“S’your fault,” says the blanket on the floor, “you overbalanced me.”

“Your stupid leg broke it though.” Paul pokes the broken seat leg again, until John pulls him upright next to him.

“Just a seat leg, Paulie,” he says, kissing his forehead. “Not the end of the world, when all’s said and done, is it now?” He pauses. “George, are you broken?”

“Nope,” George says, poking his head out of the blanket finally. “I’m all present and correct.”

“There,” says John, with finality. “That’s sorted then, isn’t it?”

“Fuck you for being right,” says Paul, and he kisses John again before snuggling his head down on John’s shoulder. “Why are you always right?”

“I’ll remind you that you said that in the morning,” John says.


End file.
